I'm not much of a videogame person, myself.

I think it may have been the influence of my aunt and uncle, growing up. That is to say, they were (and still are) staunch proponents of the theory that video games release a wavelength when operated that has a frequency which causes the brain to melt. It's a very complex process in which the atoms are forced to part and convert grey matter into liquid form, which then makes its way out of your ear canal via anatomic functions previously thought impossible. I tried to explain to them that this wouldn't happen as a child, but neither of them listened to me.

Anyway, I'm not much of a gamer, but there is one game that I am pretty fantastic at: Minecraft.

"But wait," you may ask, "Minecraft has no levels, no bosses. All you do is run around and make things. How can one be good at a game like that?"

To which I would respond by petting your face and shushing you softly because you clearly don't know what you're talking about.

I spent most of my weekend creating a fortress of unspeakable beauty by carving out the side of a mountain. Every time night fell and vicious beasts began to roam around, thirsting for blood, did I take refuge in the castle? No, for I am an artist and I refuse to dwell in an incomplete work. I surrounded myself with rocks and waited in the complete darkness for the groans of zombies to fade with the dawn. That is the extent of my dedication. Mind you, not only am I not done, but I did all of this alone. Here's an attached picture:

Attached File: bestcastleever

Take note of the moat. That wasn't easy to make, mind you. I had to dig a tunnel straight from the beach to make that moat. I thought about building the castle right on the sand, because I wouldn't have to work so hard to dig a tunnel and risk drowning every time, but I decided building on sand would be structurally unsound (not to mention what would happen during high tide).

"But there is no moving tide in Minecra-" Ssshhh.

"Sand doesn't actually crumble in the ga-" Sssssshhhhhh.

"Psh, I've seen/made better," you may say, rolling your eyes.

To which I would respond by petting your face and shushing you softly before making you leave because this is my moment in the spotlight, thank you, I don't need any of you invalidating the 21 solid hours of building that I underwent.

"Why are you telling me about this? I don't care about Minecraft. I came to your blog for reasons that are specifically not Minecraft."

You guys are so demanding it's ridiculous.

Anyway, the reason why I brought up all this Minecraft stuff is actually very important. You see, this is the first weekend in which I did not go to Expedia and make false plans to go to Stark Expo. Typically I would figure out which cheap motels I'd stay at, how much it'd cost to go there, which panels I'd go to, and then look through the online schedule in a pathetic display of masochism. This energy has been converted into Minecraft enthusiasm, which I believe is a positive change for my psychological health.

"Your blog just keeps getting worse," you may sneer.

"It's my blog," I would say to anyone who would be so rude (and I know none of you would because you're wonderful for choosing to follow me anyway). "I don't need to please anyone but myself."

And to prove that this is, indeed, a blog that I use for my own purposes without having to conform to the standards of a bunch of anonymous people on the internet that I will never meet, I just wrote a post that had more than 500 words dedicated to me ranting about how I play Minecraft. And you just read all of it.

Hahaha, wow, this really is falling apart. What will happen next? Will this blog turn into a chronicle of my slow descent in quality and (dare I say) eventual madness? Will my next blog post consist of a 1,000 word essay on what kind of consistency I enjoy best in pizza?

(Cheesy, chewy, but tough crust)

The world awaits with bated breath for the next exciting update on my exciting, and eventful life.

Stay tuned.


Gwen Stacy sat in her English class, tapping her foot and chewing her lip nervously. For the first time in quite a while, she wished her teacher would just stop talking and get to the point already. Her eyes darted briefly to Flash Thompson and her foot-tapping increased in frequency, much to the dismay of the people sitting around her.

"… And together, create a presentation that will not only teach us," and here Mrs. Ford paused dramatically, peering at each of her students, "but enlighten us."

Most of the students let out a collective groan at this, but Mrs. Ford didn't seem to notice.

The Shakespeare project was something Gwen had been dreading ever since she had been assigned Flash Thompson's partner at the beginning of the year, and the feeling had grown even worse ever since he had asked her out that fateful day several weeks ago. Not only was the Shakespeare project notoriously difficult to get an A on, but Flash wasn't the most studious of the people in her class. Gwen had a strict belief that everyone could excel academically if they worked hard enough and had the right help, but Flash was one of those unfortunate few who not only didn't work, but felt no compulsion to pretend to do so, either.

The last English project they'd worked on, a thankfully small-scale exposition on the recurring themes throughout Homer's Odyssey, had been a disaster in more ways than one.


"It was Zeus who made me come, no choice of mine," Gwen read aloud. "Who would willingly roam across a salty waste so vast, so endless? Think: no city of men in sight, and not a soul to offer the gods a sacrifice and burn the fattest victims."

She highlighted this excerpt carefully in her worn copy of the famous epic and looked up at her partner. "I think we could use this as one of the quotes that show a struggle between fate and free will. What do you think?"

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, that works." He fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat.

Gwen was severely unimpressed.

"Is it that you're distracted, Flash, or is it that you didn't read up to the latest chapter in the book? I really hope it's not the latter, because we have had more than three days to prepare for this and I'm not taking any excuses short of a family tragedy." She gestured menacingly with her pencil, and what began as a statement threatened to evolve into a full-on diatribe. "If it's the problem is distraction, Thompson, I highly suggest you start focusing because I am not going to fail this project just because I had a partner who couldn't get his head out of the clouds, so help me I will speak to Mrs. Ford if I have to, and if you even think for one second that I won't—"

"Will you go out with me?" He interrupted, suddenly.

It wasn't a wise move.

Gwen's jaw fell, her words dying in her mouth, and dropped the pencil she'd been holding. Her train of thought crashed, burned, and rolled off its tracks into a lake where it sank in a miserable heap. Screaming passengers ran in circles within, desperately searching for escape but finding none, eventually collapsed due to a buildup of smoke and drowned in their sleep as lake water seeped through infinitesimal cracks into each train car and this metaphor has gone on long enough.

A car alarm went off in the distance.

The rowdy teenagers living across the street started blaring music from their apartment.

Somewhere in the other room, Gwen's mother dropped a plate.

"Gwen?" Flash finally said, when he couldn't stand the silence anymore.

There was no response.

Gwen tried desperately to think of something appropriate to say, thought of too many things at once, and as a result said nothing at all, continuing to gape at him like a fish while he fidgeted uncomfortably under her gaze.

The music was turned down when someone began yelling at the teenagers across the street. They yelled back.

The car alarm continued to echo in the distance.

When the silence stretched to its breaking point, Gwen finally spoke:

"So if you flip to page 54, you'll see that you can use lines 14 through 32 to illustrate the daily struggle of appeasing the gods. Can you copy those down while I look for more examples to use?"

Flash responded with admirable quickness. "Yeah, sure. Could you pass me the notebook? You said it was page… 64?"

"54."

"Right, right. Sorry."

"It's fine."

Everything they said from that point revolved solely around the assignment; no mention was made of Flash's question again.

It was quite possibly the most tense and awkward night of Gwen Stacy's entire life.

The two of them received a B+.


She shook her head frantically to clear the memory; she hated it when humiliating bits of her past interrupted her life every so often, forcing her to blush in shame despite how long ago the events may have taken place. She needn't have worried about clearing her mind of that embarrassing event, however, for a larger problem presented itself.

The Shakespeare Project would require all of her focus and attention. English class was the closest thing to a "problem" class that Gwen had, and she simply couldn't afford to have another B on her report this semester. But large-scale school projects were commonplace. She was used to obstacles like this. It was nothing she couldn't take on if she put her mind to it. No, the problem was Flash Thompson himself. Though they technically did not have assigned group members, Mrs. Ford had yet to have a student work with someone new; there hadn't been a single request for change that had been honored, and Gwen's chances of becoming partners with someone else were miserably bleak.

Mrs. Ford read out the names of each student and his or her partner loudly and clearly, carefully making sure to articulate each syllable.

"Jeromy Daniels and Phillip Croft," she announced. No one in the class reacted; everyone already knew who was working with whom. "Elizabeth Quentin and Victor Bao."

Gwen couldn't help it. She glanced at Flash again. How was she going to bear working with him? What would she say? Should she apologize? Should she try to explain herself? Or would it be better to pretend that nothing had happened? Just what was the proper protocol for a situation such as this? Flash looked up and locked eyes with Gwen; despite the near heart attack, she managed to give a prim smile and a nod of acknowledgement rather than jump up in her desk and turn the other way. She was proud of herself for being able to control reactions, and she turned back towards the front of the classroom just as Mrs. Ford read their names aloud.

"Eugene Thompson and Gwen Stacy."

Gwen gave the teacher a tight-lipped smile and fought back the near-overwhelming urge to slam her head down onto the desk repeatedly. She had no idea how to do this. No idea at all. What to say, what to do, everything was a huge, stupid and complicated mystery, with no way of finding out what's the right thing to do except by messing up. Did she dare ask for a change? What if Mrs. Ford got angry? What if she forced her and Flash to stay after class and talk to her about what's wrong or something equally embarrassing and ugh she couldn't risk that happening!

She wished there was a class that taught you how to cope with such astoundingly awkward situations. "How to Deal With Someone Who Tried Asking You Out at the Worst Possible Moment Ever and then You Embarrassed Yourself by Ignoring Him Because You're a Horrible Person 101." It would be a useful class, a popular one. It would be a fitting replacement for popular "filler" classes, which students took for the sole reason of being able to sleep through a period while still receiving credit. God only knew that she needed such a course in her life.

Gwen pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. Flash looked out the window and thought very seriously about punching himself in the face. Mrs. Ford did not notice any of this and continued reading in her strict voice,

"Abigail Francis and Fred Harolds…"


"Alright, class, I have some unexpected news for today," Professor Walton announced when he reached his desk at the front of the class. The students slowly turned their uninterested gazes upon him.

"Our original plan was to have the cat dissection lab after watching a documentary on the life sciences, basic anatomy, and so forth. However, Mr. Creed from the second hour biology class has, despite my careful scheduling, taken the video for his own class." Walton sneered at the thought of his long-time rival. "Not that it matters, of course. The video is exceedingly simplistic. You are all much smarter than that, which is why you will be getting a head start on the cat lab, starting today!"

He remained ignorant of the collective groan that resonated throughout the classroom. Morgan dejectedly put away the bag of candy she'd been hoping to sell during the movie. Rick realized that he wouldn't be able to sleep during the period and rubbed his eyes with a plaintive moan.

"I know you are all excited, but please remember that concentration is key for success! This isn't your first dissection lab, and I trust each and every one of you; but nonetheless, don't think that I won't be examining you carefully for any signs of frivolity!" Walton made a shooing gesture with his hands. "Now go partner up and find a table. Hurry!"

The room filled with the sound of sighs and the scrape of chairs along the floor, as students rose and meandered slowly to their partners. Gwen rose from her seat with and stretched her arms high above her head before making her way to Hannah, whom she usually worked with for labs such as these.

"Come on. Let's get to work," she said, completely oblivious to Hannah's sudden discomfort. "This time, look away from the lab table, and answer the questions on both of our worksheets, alright?"

Hannah squirmed uncomfortably in her seat. "Actually, I was… I was, uh, that is to say…"

Hannah never stammered, Gwen thought to herself with faint alarm. Clearly something had to be unspeakably wrong. "Are you okay? Are you feeling alright?"

She peered closely into her friend's eyes, which couldn't quite meet hers. "Is it because of the dissection lab?"

"Yes!" she exclaimed loudly, her nervousness but a faint memory. "Yeah, that's it! You know how it is with the smell and everything and you look in the box and it's dead and it's totally gross and then you have to cut it up and stuff and label it and it's really disgusting and I'm feeling totally nauseated I might even throw up again so I," Hannah jumped up from her seat, "I am going to ask Professor Walton to let me go to the nurse early, you know, so that I don't end up causing some kind of huge catastrophe in the classroom because that's super embarrassing and you know how much Walton loves his lab squeaky clean and it smells bad enough with all the dead animals everywhere without be vomiting all over the place, so I'm sorry, you'll have to find another partner, hey, what about Peter? Peter Parker! You know him, right?"

Gwen glanced behind her to where Peter was standing. He was staring very intently at the worksheet they'd been given, and she noticed that, curiously enough, he was holding it upside down.

"Yeah! You guys are like friends, or acquaintances or whatever, I mean you guys talk right so an in-class assignment is like no big deal at all, yeah? Anyway I am going to pop over to the nurse and ask her for some medicine or a barf bag or let me lie down a little because, you know, I'm feeling a little under the weather, and maybe she'll let me stay in the office all day, who even knows? Wouldn't that be fantastic though, I mean, I wouldn't have to put up with another quiz in English and I might even be able to go to the cafeteria and get food, the possibilities are endless, right?"

"Um, okay then! I hope you feel—"

Hannah ran off towards Professor Walton before Gwen could finish, and the rest of her words died on her lips. She sighed to herself; what else could she expect from the impetuous girl?

She pivoted lightly on her heel and approached Peter, who was holding the assignment the right way up and turning a light shade of pink.

"Hey, Peter! Do you have already have a partner for the lab?"

He quickly dropped the paper and knocked over his pencil, which clattered onto the floor and rolled under the desk.

"No! I don't." He coughed. "I don't, uh, have a partner, no. Hi, Gwen."

"Hi," she chuckled. "Here, I'll get that for you."

She reached down and grabbed his pencil, which had landed near his shoe.

"So, um," he said loudly, "This is new. What, uh, happened to your normal partner?"

"Hannah?" Gwen sighed. "She went to the nurse. I am officially without my normal buddy for this lab, which is why I am formally asking you, Peter Parker," and she tossed him his pencil.

"Will you be my lab partner?"

Peter lunged for the pencil, fumbled with it, and nearly dropped it twice before he managed to slam it down onto his notebook.

"Yes!" he exclaimed, scratching the back of his head and grinning wildly. The pencil rolled off the desk once more. "It would be an honor. Really."

"Good. I would have been extremely offended if you said anything else." She picked up the pencil once more and placed it very carefully into his hand. "Be careful, now."

"Right. Sorry, I just…" Peter sighed loudly and covered his face with his hands, rubbing his eyes slowly. "Wow. I am an embarrassment. I give up. I'm sorry."

Gwen snorted, despite herself. "Don't worry about it, Peter! It's funny." She laughed. "Come on, we've got work to do."

She gave him her friendliest smile and gestured towards the tables in the back of the classroom. "Shall we?"

He smiled back; it was an awkward smile, and his face was still a vibrant shade of red, but it was better than nothing and Gwen was just glad he wasn't completely withdrawing from her. With her leading the way, the two of them situated themselves at the table farthest from the chalkboard; she typically preferred the seat closest to the front of the room, but this was a special day. Peter noticed her frowning.

(He also noticed that, for once, she was sitting in the back, but he did not articulate this.)

"Is something wrong?" He asked tentatively. "You don't seem all that excited."

Gwen let out a scoff and opened her binder with more force than necessary.

"Ugh, I hate the dissection labs." Gwen curled her lip. "The way things smell, the way they look… I usually work with Hannah, and she always makes me do the actual cutting since she's supposedly more squeamish than me."

Peter laughed as he handed her a pair of goggles. "Oh, please. You think you have it bad?"

"Thanks. And yes, yes I do think I had it bad, as a matter of fact." She slipped the goggles over her head, wincing a little as the rubber strap pulled against a few strands of her hair. "Dead animals gross me out, and carving them up always seemed… disrespectful to me. Even if it is important for biology."

Her new lab partner handed her a pair of rubber gloves, which she also accepted with gratitude. "I say I had it worse."

"Oh? How so?"

"Well, I for one usually end up partners with Frankie Graf over there." He nodded at the general direction of the aforementioned boy. Gwen turned and saw him giggling to himself as he scratched his scalp with a pen, his partner laughing with him uncomfortably.

"Brian doesn't seem to be enjoying his company very much." Gwen turned back to Peter. "Why, what did he do?"

"Well," Peter sighed wearily as he opened to the proper page in the assignment, "Remember the last dissection we had to do in class?"

Gwen nodded. "Of course. The fetal pig lab. I remember Hannah crying and getting sent to the nurse."

Peter gave her a pained look. "Frankie named ours."

Her eyes widened, and her hands flew to her mouth immediately. "You're kidding me."

He nodded, still wincing.

"He named the pig?"

"Yeah."

"He named it."

"Mmhm."

She wasn't sure whether to laugh or to cry. "Hoooly crap, that is the worst, most god-awful…"

"It gets better. Or worse, I guess." Peter shrugged. "Do you know what he named it?"

"I don't want to know." Gwen shook her head wildly in disbelief. "Never mind. I change my mind. I do want to know. Tell me."

"You're not going to believe this," Peter said, shaking his head and filling in the first few questions of the worksheet. "Wilbur."

"Wilbur?"

"Wilbur."

"As in…"

"From Charlotte's Web. Yeah."

With a low moan, Gwen covered her face with her gloved hands, dramatically draping herself across the table. "I think I'm going to be sick," she whimpered. "That is disgusting. That is the most vile, gross, horrible…"

"I'm just glad I didn't end up with another Frankie," Peter snickered. "If it'll make you feel better, I'll do the actual dissecting for this one."

Gwen stopped groaning and peeked at him from between her fingers. "Will you really?"

"Sure! It's my fault for telling you that story, anyway."

She paused. And then, "I don't know. Are you good at it?"

Peter scoffed loudly and made a show of throwing up his hands in disgust. "I see how it is! You rebuff my attempts at helping you because you're afraid of what your grades will be like. Fine! I wash my hands of you, Gwen Stacy. Goodbye."

She smothered her laughter with one hand and slapped his arm with the other.

"Oh my god, will you shut up? I didn't mean it like that and you know it!" she exclaimed. "Professor Walton is going to hear us!"

Peter gasped.

"You're right! Any moment now, he will appear behind us after detecting our frivolity!"

Professor Walton appeared out of nowhere behind them with a clipboard in one hand and a box on the other. He cleared his throat, causing Peter to jump and turn red and Gwen to immediately stop smiling. Luckily for them, however, he wasn't here to admonish them for their noisy behavior or lack of decorum. Curiously enough, he rather was smiling widely in excitement.

"Ah," he boomed, beaming with pride. "Now this is a sight I had been hoping to see for a very long time!"

"I'm sorry sir," Gwen began tentatively, "But I don't quite under—"

"My top two students, working together on a lab for the very first time! I am looking forward to some impressive results, my friends! I am sure your work will be a beautiful example for the rest of the class to follow"

Professor Walton placed the box on their desk and walked away, humming contentedly to himself. Gwen didn't react and simply stood there and blinked, having lost her teacher at the first sentence.

"Top… Top two—?" Eyes wide, she whipped around to face Peter.

Peter, upon making eye contact and seeing the look of shock on her face, raised his eyebrows high and gave the worst imitation of a grin Gwen had ever seen, more of a wide baring of teeth than having any semblance of an authentic smile.

"You're one of the top students in the class?" she finally managed.

He cocked an eyebrow. "Why, did you think I was in the bottom or something?"

She shook her head wildly, trying to regain her bearings. "No, no, I just— I just thought— I didn't think there was—"

Gwen looked up at him. "Top two?"

Peter chewed on his lip. "Should… I be offended at this line of questioning, or…?"

"No! I just didn't think there was another…" She could think of no way to word this without sounding completely arrogant, so she decided to drop the subject and smiled politely instead. "I'm just glad I get a quality partner for the lab."

Peter returned the smile (thank God) and busied himself with the sealed box, which would contain their specimen. Gwen found herself staring absent-mindedly as he worked. So he was the top (in the top, she corrected) of the class, huh? How could she not have known? He never participated, and she'd even forgotten he was in the class until she started talking to him. Gwen felt a wave of self-disgust surge over her. Was she seriously getting upset over the possibility of a little competition? Had she become that proud? She frowned a bit as Peter struggled with peeling the off the lid. She hadn't considered him stupid, by far, but she definitely hadn't expected him to be top (in the top! she corrected with a trace of desperation) of the class!

She also hadn't expected him to be so… funny. He was almost a completely different person, once he got over his crippling shyness. The awkward, fumbling manner in which he usually spoke just melted away to reveal someone who was confident he could make you laugh and didn't care if he happened to fail in his attempts to do so. It was bizarre and strange, and Gwen couldn't figure it out at all. She furrowed her brows as she continued to stare.

What other surprises were Peter Parker concealing?

The smell of formaldehyde hit Gwen's nostrils without warning, jerking her out of her reflections and making her eyes water almost immediately. Peter had finally managed to pry open the box's lid.

"Oh my god…" Gwen gagged. "I'll never get used to that smell."

"Take a deep breath," he advised. "Let's take a look inside."

She inhaled loudly and held her breath, covering her mouth with one hand. Peter took off the lid with a flourish, and she could see him grimace as the foul odor of preservatives billowed out of the container. The two of them leaned in tentatively to peer inside, and Gwen winced in both pity and disgust at the sight; the creature had taken on a sickly brown color thanks to the formaldehyde, just barely resembling its former self. Gwen had to remind herself rather forcefully that the poor thing had died of natural causes. Still, it was a sobering sight.

Gwen had always wanted a cat.

The two of them gazed on in quiet contemplation, and may have continued to do so for several minutes if Peter hadn't made a very unusual remark.

"Gwen," he said as he stared into the box. "Have you ever read the Harry Potter series?"

"Mmhm." Gwen looked at her partner and raised an eyebrow, a hand still clamped firmly over her mouth. "Why?"

Peter's eyes darted to Gwen, then to the box's contents, and back at Gwen once more. He pressed his lips together and waited for her to understand.

She cocked her head in bewilderment. She glanced into the box, then to Peter, and back to the box again. Realization slowly dawned on her, and her eyes widened in alarm.

"No," she said simply, forgetting about keeping out the smell and letting her hand drop to her side.

Peter shrugged and looked upwards at the ceiling, trying not to smile.

"No," Gwen repeated, more insistent this time. She held up a threatening finger. "Peter Parker, don't you even think about it."

"Alright! Alright!" he said, putting his hands up in surrender. "Calm down!"

"I don't want to hear a word out of you, do you understand?"

"Look, all I'm saying is," and Peter gave her the biggest shit-eating-grin she had ever seen in her entire life, "Crookshanks is a fantastic name for—"

She smacked him with her binder as hard as she could.


In the end, Mrs. Norris…

("No, it's just The Cat!" Gwen hissed, brandishing her packet threateningly. Peter tried and failed to suppress his laughter, and admittedly the pile of papers failed to act as a particularly intimidating weapon.)

… turned out to be one of the best examples of a proper lab dissection that Professor Walton had seen during his time at Midtown High; a fact which he flaunted proudly by having everyone gather around Peter and Gwen's table.

"Do you see how neatly the lateral incision was made? Take very careful note, class, of how well they labeled the lower organs. Oh, and the esophagus is always tricky, what with the various muscles surrounding the throat, but they managed to pull it off with resounding success!"

Gwen basked in Professor Walton's praise, even with the full knowledge that no one was really listening to him, but Peter mostly shrank away from the "attention," slouching in a strategic location behind his lab partner so that no one could notice him. She noticed, of course.

"Is something wrong?" she whispered, turning her head towards him while keeping her eyes on the teacher.

"No, nothing's wrong." He muttered back. "This just feels weird."

She glanced at him, smirked, and elbowed him gently. "Come on, don't you feel flattered? That esophagus was all you."

Peter smiled. "Most of it was me, you know."

"Untrue! I labeled everything, and I held parts of the cat when you needed me to."

"I thought we agreed we'd name it Mrs. Norris?"

Gwen tried very hard to mold her features into a frown. "No, we agreed it was a better name than Crookshanks. I never once said that would be its name!"

He snickered, and she couldn't help but laugh a little, as well. "We're horrible people, you know that? We are downright disgusting."

She glanced back at Professor Walton, who was now pointing out the condition of the heart with wild gestures that threatened to hit those closest to him. Several of the students took a couple of steps back. She watched him rave for a little while, biting her lip and not really listening to what he was saying. Gwen steeled herself and turned to Peter.

"Hey, Peter?"

"Yeah?"

"It was fun working with you."

He stared at her a bit, and a smile slowly formed on his face.

"Thanks," he mumbled as he looked down at his feet. He looked up at her, his chin still tucked down. "I liked working with you, too."

"I was really impressed. Honestly." Gwen nodded her head. "We should do this again, sometime."

Peter shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket and shrugged. "It's a deal!"


I like a very specific type of consistency with my pizzas. It can't be too soft, but it can't be entirely crunchy, either. The best pizza has a thick crust, but soft toppings so that you get a nice and even texture when you bite down on it.

I'm just kidding.

I'm not actually going to write about my feelings on pizza consistency. That would be stupid.

(I do have a specific preference for how I like my pizzas, though.)

Instead, I want to talk about school.

It's a horrible place, most of the time. I could tell you stories about my high school, but you wouldn't believe me at all. You would think, "Oh, psh. He's just making stuff up to sound funny." But I wouldn't be. I would be dead serious. Not that you'd think so.

You deal with all the various groups, with the popular kids in one corner, the nerds in the other corner, large jacked guys talking about football in the halls… You look at it and think, "It's like I was transported into a crappy Disney Channel movie. These groups don't exist outside of low-budget chick flicks for teeny boppers who are so excited about getting into high school." And yet, here they are.

What kind of group am I a part of?

Well, what do you think?

Here, think it over, I'll give you some time.

Have you thought about it?

Have you envisioned what kind of people I might hang out with?

The answer is that you are wrong.

I do not hang out with any groups. You might think that, being as handsome and talented as I am, I would be one of the most popular person at school, if not the entire state, no? Yeah, I'm shocked too. Anyway, one of the problems of being as impressively intelligent as I am is that many will think of me as what has colloquially been referred to as a "nerd."

(Ironically enough, nearly all of the people who also have been referred to as "nerds" do not see me as a "nerd." In fact, I think many of them think I'm just another angry punk or something. Is it the skateboard? I don't know why people have such a problem with it. It's like a bike, except easier to carry around.)

(Wait is that why people think I'm stupid? Is it the skateboard?)

(Does she think I'm stupid)

(Is it because of the skateboard)

(oh my god)

(she thought I was stupid she even implied it today)

(I am an idiot)

Anyway, without providing any explanation for everything I wrote above, let me continue. The problem with being perceived as a nerd by certain people is that some find it an obligation to be less than pleasant to nerds. No, it is more than an obligation; it is a public service. Nay, it is an honor. Specifically, there's one person I have to deal with, whom I won't describe because you will all think I'm making it up because he fits every single stereotype that exists for jocks. He is constantly acting like an ass, and I am really unsure of what to do. Do I phone his parents? Do I ask my uncle to beat him up? Do I tell the teacher that he was being super mean? I don't think so. Lucky for me, he hasn't hung me by my underwear on the flag post or anything, but I don't think I can turn to an authority figure without inviting this to happen.

Sometimes I suspect that his constant harassment is a result of his homo-erotic feelings for me, and his asshattery is a means for him to not only express his anger and confusion at his budding sexuality, but also for him to get my attention in methods so immature that most people stop doing it after the third grade.

But then I realize I am thinking that some dude with too much time on his hands is being a crappy human being because he wants to have sex with me, so I stop thinking altogether and do something else entirely. Like play Minecraft. Or eat a pizza. I won't dismiss the thought entirely, though, because once we graduate and I no longer have to worry about inviting death by running into him in the hallway, I can yell this at him and watch him blow a vein in anger. Sometimes I want to sneer and be like, "Don't touch me, I run a blog." But most of the time I just want to avoid him entirely.

Have you guys ever had to put up with a guy like this? Someone who seems to exist for no other reason except to perpetually rain on your parade? What did you do about it?

Mind you, I'm not asking for advice or anything. Nope. Wayyy too manly for that. I just want to hear your stories. Yeah. That's it.

(I turned anon off, by the way, so if any of you have more plans on asking me about who "she" might be, you cannot. I'm laughing at you and I'm not even sorry. If you are upset because you wanted to ask a legitimate question but can't, now, please direct all your anger at the other anons.)

(Besides, I already told you, we are wed and we have beautiful children and a golden retriever.)

(Don't you guys ever listen?)


I do not condone the naming of specimen in labs that require their dissection.

Admittedly, this chapter is kind of (okay more like it definitely is) a filler for the next one, which involves a lot more things happening plot-wise. Hopefully this won't bore anyone TOO much!

The formatting on is really confusing for me... If anyone is bothered by the clutter, please let me know and I'll try to see if I can go alter all three. :(